


exit, pursued by a bear

by amells (aeviternal)



Series: a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Pre-Relationship, Shapeshifting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-25 12:01:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22495765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeviternal/pseuds/amells
Summary: While in the Deep Roads, Warden Amell finds herself having just aweebit of a shapeshifting mishap, much to her irritation and consternation.It’s quite possibly the best thing to ever happen to Alistair.
Relationships: Alistair/Female Amell (Dragon Age), Alistair/Female Warden (Dragon Age)
Series: a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1213548
Comments: 3
Kudos: 23





	exit, pursued by a bear

If anyone were to ask Alistair about it later, he honestly wouldn’t be able to say how it happened.

It’s a bit of a shame, really, because it’s _such_ a good story and he’d love to actually be able to explain it in a _somewhat_ chronological sense, rather than just sort of flailing his hands about and wheezing out funny but generally incomprehensible words through laughter. Which is what always happens, even months later, because like he said, it’s _such a good story._

So, alright. It starts like this: they’re in the Deep Roads, right? In the Dead Trenches, specifically, which is arguably the worst part of it, given the _archdemon_ and the _swarming masses of darkspawn_ and the _broodmother_ and everything. Only they hadn’t known about that last part, actually, not yet, so— just the archdemon and darkspawn, then. Which had been bad enough on their own, to his memory, so that’s not really much of an improvement.

It’d been maybe two months since they’d last seen anything other than stone and spiders and darkspawn, and everyone was getting a bit… antsy. A bit mad, maybe. Leliana might’ve been able to help with that, but they’d had to leave her in Orzammar with the others in case they didn’t come back, so there weren’t any prayers or soft, lilting songs to calm everyone’s nerves. Just a lot of distant shrieking, which obviously wasn’t _quite_ what he’d had in mind, and really only served to make them all flinch or sigh or scowl.

Not that he can really _blame_ anyone for being a bit on edge, because the Deep Roads stick with him for _years_ after they leave them, and not just because of the wealth of stories they offered. They were dark and creepy and filled to the brim with scuttling little critters that set his teeth on edge – he’d picked more bugs out of his bedroll in those two months than he had in his _entire life_ – and every day brought a new horror to light. Or, to _dark,_ because _everywhere was shadowy and creepy_ and there was _no light literally anywhere._

But that’s not the point, anyway.

They’d been about halfway through the Dead Trenches, tired and hungry and bruised, covered in dried blood and spider guts, and getting progressively grumpier with every step they took.

Looking back, they must’ve made a sorry sight. Cedany was still griping over a slashed shoulder from a shriek’s lucky swipe about four days back, and Oghren kept getting gruffer every time they packed up camp, while Zevran had gone uncharacteristically quiet after some hushed conversation with their illustrious leader the day before. Even _Max_ seemed a bit down in the dumps, the poor thing. He stuck to Cedany’s side like fungus or moss or something equally as clingy, and when he wasn’t nosing at the ground for darkspawn, he was huffing and puffing like the world was out to get him.

Which was a bit unfair, really. Given everything, Alistair rather thought the world was much more likely to be out for _him,_ or maybe Cedany, than a mabari.

That wasn’t to say that he himself was immune to all the doom and gloom, however. To be perfectly honest, he’d been getting worn down by the always-tickling presence of darkspawn in the corner of his eye since they left Orzammar, though he’d tried not to complain of it too much. One grouchy warden was probably enough for a party, was his reasoning, especially when that grouchy warden was _Cedany;_ maybe there was some sort of rule about not having any more, somewhere.

If there wasn’t, there _really_ should be.

He remembers Cedany opening the door, careful to check for traps this time because they’d already been singed by a well-placed pressure plate that morning, and then suddenly there’d been skeletons _everywhere_ and he’d lost sight of her. He’d lost sight of everyone, really, the world narrowing down to the swing of his sword, the give of bone under his shield, the scrape of sharp fingers against his armour. Stab, dodge, bash. Stab, dodge, bash. Stab, dodge, bash.

It’d turned into some odd little routine, or maybe a sort of dance, which was funny to think about, because he _distinctly_ remembered joking about with Cedany about dancing with darkspawn months ago.

This was considerably less amusing than it’d seemed back then, though, and he swore as one of their foes pulled at his shield until his arm _screamed_. The dead were _everywhere,_ and they were _hungry._ Wynne’d made some efforts to explain necromancy to him months back, so he sort of understood _why_ they were hungry, but _Maker_ if it wasn’t terrifying when it was gnashing its bloody teeth in your face. Not _quite_ as tame as it’d sounded when the old mage was going on about ‘hunger demons’ and ‘possession’ and all that fun stuff that’d put him right off his supper.

Between the lurch of skeletal limbs, he thought he caught sight of an emissary’s twirling movements, but getting over to it was a much harder task than it’d seemed. Every time it seemed he drew nearer, five more of the little buggers tackled him, and the weight was starting to drag him down.

Look, he wasn’t saying that they’d never faced worse, because they definitely, _definitely_ had, but it was hard to remember that when the dead kept pouring in like a many-limbed tide intent on pulling them all under. He dented in the bleached skull of one of the little blighters – ha, _blight_ ers, he should remember that – with his shield and whirled to slash his sword across another’s ribs, shoulders braced against the swelling horde like he could withstand it through stubbornness alone. Which he might just be able to, given enough time.

There was the brief flash of Zevran’s blades through a mass of bone and bodies, and Alistair leapt, quickly lopping the head off of a skeleton that had been aiming for the elf’s exposed back. Zevran, face split in two by a grin, yelled something that _might_ have been a thank-you, and Alistair panted out an acknowledgement as he whirled on another of the undead, blade raised with a battle-cry on his tongue.

And of course, that was when everything sort of went pear-shaped.

(Where does that saying come from, by the way? ‘Pear-shaped’. It’s a bit odd, isn’t it? What’s wrong with the shape of pears? Also, why is he comparing a _skeleton attack_ to a _piece of fruit_ in the first place?)

The first sign he got that the fight wasn’t exactly going in their favour was the snarling hiss of a skeleton _very close_ to his ear, and then the group seemed to abruptly triple in size. Something very heavy and very fast clambered onto his back, next, and he yelled, whirling about to try and dislodge it even as something clattered against his helm. His legs swayed unsteadily under the weight of whichever foe had rushed him, and he span in lurching circles like a drunk, feeling his body beginning to keel over to one side before someone managed to pry the thing off him. Oghren roared something crude and unrepeatable nearby, and then there was a yelp, high-pitched and panicked and _familiar_ , and Alistair’s chest lit up with storm-sharp fear as he turned, a cry of _‘Ced—’_ cracking on his tongue, and then—

Then there’d been a bear in the room.

A _bear._ In the Deep Roads. A _bear_ , in the Deep Roads, biting the limbs off of skeletons _very_ enthusiastically.

You know, sometimes Alistair isn’t so certain that he didn’t die at Ostagar after all. Because really, how do these things keep happening in his general vicinity? How does he know none of this is just part of some very strange, very stupid sort of afterlife? Hm?

After the appearance of the _bear,_ the battle turned their way rather quickly. Most of the skeletons seemed to decide that banding together and throwing themselves at the very big, very angry mass of fur and teeth in the middle of the room was the way to go, for some reason, and after that it became laughably easy for Zevran to pick them off from behind while Alistair and Oghren worked on cutting the emissary to bits. The bear itself made quick work of breaking everything in arm’s radius around it to pieces, throwing skeletons at the walls and dropping its full weight on packs of them with loud roars that seemed to shake the ground itself _._

He’d almost felt a bit bad for the buggers, if he was being honest. It just _kept going,_ and soon enough the skeletons that weren’t getting snapped to itty bits in its eager jaws were turning tail and running. Which was… quite the satisfying sight, actually.

As the last of them disappeared ‘round the corner, he tugged off his helm and wiped sweat from his brow. “ _Maker._ ”

The bear-who-was-Cedany (because who else was both _that_ violent and prone to suddenly turning into slightly frightening animals?) made a sound he decided to interpret as agreement.

“Well, my dear!” Zevran laughed, returning his knives to their sheaths. “That was quite remarkable.”

Her grin, then, was full of teeth.

Alistair snorted. “And not a moment too soon.”

“We all just gonna act like that shit’s _normal_?” Oghren groused, waving a hand Cedany’s way and looking altogether like he wasn’t sure whether to attack her or shit himself.

“She’s _Cedany,_ she’s never normal.”

The bear huffed at that, giving him a look that he _could_ choose to decode, a look that’d probably be laden with expletives and imaginative insults if he did. Luckily enough for him, though, he decided _against_ that particular course of action, and put his sword away.

Oghren was scowling. “That ain’t what I _meant._ You’re telling me this shit is just _everyday-normal_ for you?”

Zevran shrugged. “The bear, admittedly, is new. But _much_ more preferable to the spider, my little friend. Do you not agree, Alistair?”

You know, Alistair never thought he’d live to see the day that a bear _pouted._

Without really meaning to, he caught himself laughing for the first time in ages. “I’ll second that, yes. Much less… wriggly. I don’t want to squash her as much. Well. Not _quite_ as much, anyway.”

“Hm.” Zevran tilted his head. “Yes, I rather think trying to squash her like this would end poorly for the both of us. But ah well, we can always try, I suppose.”

Cedany’s lips peeled back from her teeth to let out a low growl. Coming from a still-bloody bear he’d just watched decimate a small army of monsters, it was… perhaps a little bit unnerving.

“Ugh,” Oghren huffed, sticking his axe in the harness on his back and shaking his head like they were all barmy. “Whatever. Surfacers. I need a _drink._ ”

The bear rolled her eyes. It was a surprisingly effective expression, given the obvious.

“Come, then. Let us move on,” Zevran said, gesturing towards a hallway leading into shadow. “Cedany, perhaps this would be easier if you changed _back_ into yourself. Not that you are not a very fine bear, of course, but it is _far_ more enjoyable to follow you in that _flattering_ Warden armour, no?”

Which, well. The man wasn’t wrong. Not that Alistair had— you know. Noticed. He’d just happened to catch a glimpse here and there, was all. He was a warrior; he had to pay attention to his surroundings. Cedany and her… _rear_ — well, they were surroundings. Part of them.

Moving on.

With a wink and another toothy smile, the bear dropped back onto her backside and closed her eyes. It was quite a funny sight, really, watching a big, formidable, powerful bear pull Cedany’s famously-comical concentration faces, nose twitching every few seconds and eyes crinkling up till they were practically invisible.

He wondered idly if he’d be able to get her to do tricks like this, when they were out of the Deep Roads and back in civilisation. He could have her fetch things, like a mabari, or maybe just dance around like a loon. That’d brighten the camp up some, at least.

The dancing she might be open to, he supposed, but the rest… eh. He could try, at least.

After one very long moment, the bear unclenched one eye— and then seemed to scowl.

As someone who has now _seen_ a bear scowl, Alistair would like to say that it’s not a sight he’d ever wish on anyone. Ever. Except maybe Loghain.

“Having some trouble, Ced?”

She huffed, throwing him an irritated look.

“Some, ah— _performance issues,_ perhaps, Warden?” Zevran asked, his lips twitching.

Alistair guffawed. “I should’ve thought of that one.”

“Ah, but you did not, my friend.”

Cedany gave an exasperated whine, turning a plaintive look on them as though they could solve all her problems.

“Well, what are _we_ supposed to do?” Alistair sighed.

She seemed to sort of shrug, a frustrated sound rumbling in her chest as she slumped a bit.

“By the stone,” Oghren grumbled. “She damn well better fit through the doors.”

The bear snarled.

* * *

After getting her over-large and very furry shoulders trapped in a doorway and having to rely on the rest of them to claw her out of it, Cedany was forced to admit that Oghren might have had a point. Much to her apparent horror and the amusement of everybody else.

It quickly became less funny when they realised they wouldn’t be able to leave until she figured out a way to turn back, though.

The room they’d entered wasn’t exactly ‘safe’ by any meaning of the word, but then, not many places in the Deep Roads _were_. They’d learned that pretty quickly, at least. Once you’re out of Orzammar, nowhere is safe and nowhere is nice. Shadows will bite you in the backside just as surely as deepstalkers, which are clever little things and creepy as nothing else to boot.

With a door at the back and a door at the front, they had to worry about deepstalkers. And shrieks. Hurlocks, genlocks. Every stinking monster he could think of, and probably plenty he couldn’t, too. There was always the possibility, Oghren pointed out, that the skeletons might come back, as well, so overall it wasn’t exactly the _best_ place to make camp. In fact, it was probably the _most inconvenient_ place that Cedany could’ve chosen to get herself stuck as an oversized ball of fluff, in Alistair’s opinion.

She snorted when he voiced that, then knocked her shoulder into his back so hard he almost fell over. Which was, alright, maybe fair. Didn’t make what he’d said any less true, though.

Eventually it was decided that two of them would camp out to guard one of the doors, while the other two set up by the other. After that, it was just a matter of figuring out who would go with whom, which— well, that certainly _sounds_ like an easy task, doesn’t it?

“You’re not leaving me with _that_ mangy sodding thing, no way.”

“Come, my little friend. Alistair is not _that_ mangy.”

“Hey!”

Zevran smiled, artificially oblivious and very good at it.

Oghren and Cedany, who were eyeing each other up like— well, like a bear and a dwarf, were less pleased.

“Don’t tell me you’re _scared_ of her,” Alistair said, grinning as though he wasn’t the slightest bit unnerved by the sudden transformation of his— well. Whatever it was Cedany was to him. “She’s… sort of like a big mabari. A bit. How could you be scared of a _mabari_?”

He gestured to Max, where the dog was curiously sniffing at Cedany’s paws. Poor thing didn’t seem to know _what_ to think; when Cedany shifted to nose at his head, he leapt back two paces like he’d been burned.

“ _See_?”

Zevran laughed. “Do you hear that, Cedany? Our Alistair thinks you are a _dog._ ”

When she stuck out her tongue, it was long and thick and pink, framed by many teeth. _Right. Maybe not quite like a mabari, then._

Oghren was still sputtering. “Sod off! _Scared._ ‘Course I’m not damn scared.”

Making a sound that _might_ have been a laugh, Cedany settled back on her haunches and cocked a brow. Which was a uniquely strange expression to see on a bear, really; Alistair hadn’t even known they _had_ brows.

The dwarf glared at her so fiercely he seemed to shake. “Here, I’ll prove it. Put me with her.”

Cedany pulled a face, frantically shook her head, and waved a paw about in front of her snout like she was trying to bat away a fly.

“Yes, my dear friend, you’re not wrong. He certainly is, ah… fragrant.” Zevran’s nose twitched.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing, elf _._ ”

“It… _really is_ , you know.”

With a scowl turned Alistair’s way, Oghren said, “well if she ain’t staying with me, one of you is.” His beard shifted as he grinned, teeth yellowed under the thick thatch of his moustache. “Which one of you wants to risk that?”

Alistair looked at Zevran. Zevran looked at Alistair. To the side, Cedany snorted.

“I’ll take the bear—”

“I should think entertaining a bear shan’t be _too_ difficult—”

They stopped. Frowned at each other. Generally looked as though this argument was an affront to nature, which it sort of _was_. Then Zevran grinned.

"Fight for it, my friend?"

Cedany huffed something that Alistair would hesitantly term a laugh; when he looked at her, her eyes were gleaming as though this were the best thing to ever happen to her. Frankly, it was the most irritating expression he'd ever seen a bear wear in his _life._

"We— oh, come on."

Zevran tilted his head. "I shall go easy on you, if you would prefer."

"‘Go easy’, psh. I could take you blindfolded."

There was something vaguely filthy about the curl of Zevran's lips at that, and Alistair found his face warming without really knowing why. "I certainly would not object to that, but perhaps another time, no?"

"I— oh, really, we're not _actually_ doing this, are we?"

"And why not? Unless you would like to concede and spend the night with our fragrant friend after all?"

Oghren belched. "Whatever you two are gonna do, do it soon. I'm fucking beat."

Which decided it, really, because Cedany might be big and furry and possibly dangerous, but she didn’t _stink._ He sighed, rolled his shoulders, settled his hand on the pommel of his sword and met Zevran’s laughing eyes. And then— well, then they were fighting.

* * *

Alistair won’t do himself the injustice of describing the fight to anyone again – though Cedany will, should you ask her – but ten minutes and a black eye later, he somehow found himself settling in by the southern door with a bear for a bedmate.

Which was certainly the strangest thing he’d _ever_ said.

Zevran and Oghren retreated to the other side of the room, round the corner, with a promise to yell if they saw anything. “More likely,” Zevran had chuckled, “it will be screaming in abject horror, no? Ah, you ask so much of me, Wardens; you are lucky I am so _versatile._ ”

He had winked, then. Alistair had not blushed. Shut up.

Really, the worst thing to happen after that was Cedany’s mournful rumble when Max refused to stay by her side, following closely at Zevran’s back and turning cautious glares on her whenever he thought she wasn’t looking. Which, until they disappeared behind the corner, she always was; there were many things that Alistair lo— _liked_ about Cedany, but one of the top ones was how much she loved mabari. Like any good and proper Fereldan, of course.

If he thought his troubles might be over, though, he was very mistaken. Because now they were faced with an insurmountable obstacle, a problem that defied all human understanding, a dilemma of utmost importance and utmost impossibility.

“Cedany, where do you want to sleep?”

She scowled up at him from her position on the floor, furry backside half rammed in the doorway and half spilling out around her. She was considerably less intimidating like this, at least; almost like a big teddy bear. Only… well. With teeth. And claws.

 _Here,_ her eyes seemed to say, but something about the idea had his belly twitching. And not in a good way, either.

“Well, alright, _first of all,_ there’s not room for both of us to sleep like that. No, don’t look at me like _that_ , I’m not— _insulting you_. And secondly, wouldn’t it be better if we kept the door closed? Less chance of sudden surprise by darkspawn that way, right?”

The way that Cedany huffed, she wouldn’t have minded sudden surprise by darkspawn. Which was quite ridiculous to think about, really; for all she was still scored with occasional scratches and dirtied with what he was going to _assume_ was some kind of bone-dust sort of thing, she didn’t look all that intimidating anymore. Sort of… not _cuddly,_ that is _not_ the word he’s looking for, just—

Oh, bugger off.

After much hemming and hawing – on his part, at least, since bear sounds, _surprisingly,_ weren’t so easily interpreted – they finally settled on either side of the door, which they wedged shut with their shoulders.

Or. Alright. Which _he_ wedged shut with _his_ shoulder, while Cedany slumped across it with as much of her now-considerable mass as she could fit. Which was quite a bit, as it turned out.

It was… well, _an_ arrangement. Whether good or bad, it’d prove its worth eventually. Hopefully. Maybe?

They were sat close enough that the fur of her shoulder tickled the back of his hand, settled on his thigh, and he had to suppress the urge to knot his fingers in it. He’d never touched a bear before. Well, you know, _obviously._ It wasn’t exactly the kind of thing a person really planned to do if they had their wits about them, which sometimes Alistair did.

Would she be soft?

He cast a dubious glance her way; the thick brown coat of her leg – arm? _Leg_ – looked coarse and rough, thickening to almost outrageous fluff nearer her belly and chest, flat and matted with blood in places but somehow clinging to a kind of frizziness that, had she a voice, Ced would’ve whined and huffed and complained about until the cows came home.

Bad idea. Almost definitely the worst idea he’d ever had, and that included the drunken naked lap he’d done around the camp at Ostagar the first time he’d tried out-drinking his comrades.

Somehow, though, his hand was already halfway there, hovering in the air above her downy hide, flat, before he could stop it. His fingers curled, and he cleared his throat, darting a look Cedany’s way.

Her eyes were shut. Was she sleeping? She couldn’t be asleep _already,_ surely? She took _forever_ to fall asleep in camp; he didn’t, you know, actively _listen_ or anything, but he’d heard her tossing and turning for hours before when he’d been on watch.

He shook his head. Nah. She wouldn’t be asleep yet. And that was strange, he decided, beginning to withdraw his hand. It was a strange thing to do. Why would he stroke her? He didn’t go around stroking her when she was upright and human-shaped and— and _Cedany,_ did he? He didn’t _want_ to, did he?

Well.

Clearing his throat quietly and trying to ignore his burning ears, he got comfortable on the stone floor, settling his offending hand on his lap with another head shake. _Idiot. What are you doing?_

And that, of course, was when Cedany _whuffed_ lowly, opening one eye and rolling it before dropping her head in his open palm.

He blinked. She blinked. They both blinked.

 _Like a big mabari,_ he remembered with a low chuckle, reaching out to lightly pet the long line of her snout. He was right; her fur was wiry here, thin and short, but it was smooth, too, slipping through the hollow of his palm and over the underside of his knuckles without catching.

“Huh,” he murmured, tracing up between her eyes and over her brows – or brow-approximate patches? No, she’d moved them, _brows_ – with his index finger. “You know, you’re softer than you look.”

She hummed, eyes sleepy. They were the same colour that they usually were, he realised, leaning in to study them. A sort of— green. Not a bright green, though, not like a— well, a tree, or grass, or any other green thing that he could think of. Sort of dark. He’d thought they were brown for the longest time, because they were so much darker than the rest of her; a muddy sort of… hazel… colour?

In a nice way, though! In a very nice way, actually. She had very pretty eyes.

When he said as much, she made the strangest noise, her shoulders jerking so hard she almost knocked him off-balance. Which was about when he realised that, oh, yes, this was _Cedany-the-Bear_ in his lap, his _friend_ , Cedany-the-Bear who was _laughing_ because he’d told her she had nice eyes, and he was _stroking her face,_ and this was _definitely a strange thing to be doing._

He cleared his throat, flinching back like she’d bitten him. She sort of looked like she might, frowning up at him, before somehow managing to pull off what was unmistakably a _pout._

“Sorry,” he croaked. Right. _Clear your throat again, let’s try for a second go:_ “Sorry. That was— strange. Sorry.”

She rolled her eyes, leaning forward to nose at his hand where it hovered in the air.

“No, don’t— don’t _eat my hand,_ Cedany, that is my _sword hand,_ that is a _very important hand_ —”

She snorted, and he felt the moist puff of it across his nails. Then she turned her head, nudged his cheek, and snorted again. This time, it was his ear that caught the full blast of her breath, and he yelped, contorting to rub it into his shoulder— and then she was laughing again, a low, baying sound, and he began to laugh too, swiping at a round, over-large ear with his knuckles.

“Oi, stop it.”

She pulled away with another roll of her eyes, sticking her tongue out, and yes, that many teeth _were_ just as terrifying a hand’s width from his face at they had been before, thanks for asking.

Still, he didn’t have to look at it long, because then she was dropping her head into his lap again.

“Maker,” he gasped, readjusting his legs under her bulk, “you’re heavy.” And then, before she could react: “Not insulting you! Not insulting you! Promise.”

She snorted again, lifting her chin to let him move, before dropping back down.

As though it had completely forgotten the very serious agreement that they had come to with regard to touching, he and it, his hand settled on top of her head, between her ears. The fur here was softer still than her snout, thick and fluffy, like the rug Eamon kept before his hearth in his study.

Oh, Maker. Well, that was uniquely horrifying now. Blimey.

Cedany hummed when his hand didn’t resume its stroking, and when he looked down at her, she was blinking right back up at him. Which, wow, let him tell you, is certainly _something._ Having a bear’s – a _bear’s_ – full attention like that made something in his brain, old and stupid and _smart,_ sit up and pay attention. If the _other_ part of his brain, young and stupid and considerably _less_ smart, wasn’t aware that she was, well, _who she was_ , he might have pissed his drawers then and there.

Embarrassing, that.

When he didn’t speak, she rolled her eyes, before raising her _brow-approximate patches_ and blinking.

“Nothing. Just— thinking. D’you know, Eamon has this bear-fur rug on his floor. I think it was his— grandfather’s, maybe? Or someone similar. An ancestor killed it, anyway. Doesn’t seem as, uh— _alright_ , now.” He waved an expressive hand at her— well, her everything.

She huffed, scowling and shaking her head.

“Know what else?” Alistair sighed. “This would be a lot easier if you could _talk._ ” He sighed. “‘But Alistair, you’re always trying to shut me up!’ I am _not._ Only some of the time. Usually you’re alright. You know,” his lips twitched, finger flicking one of her ears, “for a no-good mage.”

The low rumble of her growl was more than worth it.

* * *

He stayed up for what might have been an hour more, or what might have been six. Eventually, though, he felt his eyelids beginning to droop, and he woke up Cedany – who was, somehow, _still_ a bear, and who he’d worried might actually bite his head off for the crime – so that she could take over the watch.

When he dreamed, he didn’t dream of the Archdemon, or of Duncan. He didn’t dream of Ostagar, either, or Flemeth’s ramshackle hut out in the Wilds. In fact, if you asked, he’d be hard-pressed to tell you what he _did_ dream of; he only knew that it was warm, and soft, and safe.

Different people woke up differently, you know. He’d already known that, obviously, because he wasn’t a _complete_ idiot, but he’d noticed it most clearly in the last several months. Leliana woke up already half-moving, ready to strike. Sten woke up like he’d never slept, barely blinking, never disoriented or grumpy. Morrigan probably woke up still plotting her latest _evil,_ knowing her, but it wasn’t like he’d made a habit of taking watch on the same nights as her, so he couldn’t be sure.

Cedany woke up slowly, and then, all of a sudden, very quickly. She’d punched him, once, and— well, some measure of time ago, the night he’d given her the rose, she’d headbutted him. It’d left a right stinker of a bruise, too.

Alistair? Alistair took an _age_ to wake up. If he could sleep forever, somewhere comfortable and cosy, he would.

And he _was_ somewhere comfortable and cosy.

Sort of. Something was pressing into his backside very hard, actually, and he grumbled, twisting to try and dislodge it, before giving it up as a loss. And _Maker,_ did his neck hurt. But there was something soft and warm under his face, sweet-smelling if a bit stale, and he hummed, nuzzling the pillow happily.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had an actual _pillow_ to sleep with. Not since— the Chantry, maybe? He wasn’t at the Chantry _now_ , was he? That’d be _awful._

And then someone laughed in his ear, close, and he jolted, because— _no_ , Alistair, _definitely_ not in the Chantry anymore.

When he dragged his eyes open, dry and crusted with sleep, he found himself staring at a long, pale neck. And long, less-pale hair. And a long, still-pale chain of silver.

He frowned, blinking slowly, because _what had happened?_

That someone laughed again.

 _Cedany happened,_ Alistair thought, and then he was rearing back with a yelp, knocking his skull against the stone in the process.

It was only once he was done swearing and cradling his poor head in his hands that he registered she was _still laughing,_ and he turned a heatless glare on her. “Oi. A bit of help here?”

“I’m _shit_ at healing spells,” she wheezed. “You know that, idiot.”

He grumbled, rubbing a rough hand over his sore scalp. “That hurt.”

“It looked like it,” Cedany confirmed, pressing her lips together to contain her laugh.

Lips. She had lips. Human lips. Lovely, slightly chapped-looking, _people-appropriate_ lips. “Oh, Maker, _look,_ you’re not—”

“A walking mass of fluff and teeth and other nasty bits?” She grinned, the apples of her cheeks swelling as her teeth flashed, those green-brown eyes bright and sparkling. “No I am not. I’m back to my regular, beautiful self, thank the Maker. Your prayers have been answered.”

“My prayers?” he repeated, still trying to come to terms with the fact that he’d apparently been cuddling with Cedany – with a _human_ Cedany – for… for _Maker knew_ how long. _Oh, Maker’s breath, that’s embarrassing._ “W— I— _when_ did this even happen?”

She shrugged. “A few hours ago. You’d already—” Here, she faltered, going a little bit pink. Which Alistair _would_ find satisfying, except he felt like his entire face was _bright bloody red,_ and of the two of them, that was definitely worse. “Well, you’d already been sleeping against me for most of the night anyway, so I figured you could… stay. There. You know?”

 _I know?_ he thought. _Do I know?_

He didn’t say that. It was a near thing, though. “Right. _Right._ ”

She cleared her throat. He met her eyes. Thought about— something. About saying something. He’d given her the rose a while ago, hadn’t he? He _could—_

Cedany wiped off her shoulder with her other sleeve. “Did you know you drool?”

**Author's Note:**

> just a note on chronology: this is set abt three-four months after _and even from my soul leaves fall_ and abt a month-ish after _so that we might have roses_
> 
> i cant decide if im satisfied w alistair's voice in this but i had this thought literally like. during my first playthrough 2 years ago and haven't been able to let go of it so im just setting it free at this point


End file.
